


The Voice Beloved by the Trees

by sofancydancy (Lthien)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blame him, Gen, I'm going to see where this takes me, Immortal Jaskier, Jaskier is careless from a young age, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier's mom is sweet and worried about her little musician, Lord Huron is my muse, as usual, au: the fae love Jaskier, gen for now - Freeform, jaskier and his music get him in trouble, jaskier is oblivious, leave it to Jaskier to flirt with a forest and the forest to be like: ok great, she knows more than she lets on, that's not nearly as creepy as it sounds omg, the fae choose Jaskier to be their muse, the name will probably change bc it's 2am and my brain is hazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lthien/pseuds/sofancydancy
Summary: “Why do you not like the forest, mama?” Julian had asked her once, age nine, knees pressed in the mud beside her. His mother sat demurely upon a rich blanket of gold and sky blue—the colors of their house. He remembered, briefly, how her fingers stilled at his question, though careful not to bruise the bud of the flower she was attending.“It’s not safe,” His mother had said simply, her blue eyes much too bright. She plucked the scissors up off her white saffron gown and quickly snipped a mature bloom, placing it tenderly in her wicker basket. A basket that was always full of flowers: roses, forget-me-nots, orchids, and the handfuls of dandelions that Julian snuck in—his mother's favorite name for him. For the wild boy with mud on his shins and rumpled riches. Her little Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 211





	The Voice Beloved by the Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Me: *wants to write more for Jaskier being beloved by the fae* but how
> 
> My brain: Have kid!Jaskier learn to play the lute bc he wants to serenade the forest surrounding his family’s estate bc it’s big and pretty and the fae living in there, terrorizing humanity for thousands of years are like: yes, dumb, cute human child, we will bless you bc you’re too bright and innocent for the weight of humanity 
> 
> (This is me trying to do exactly that lol)

_I tried to warn you when you were a child,_ _  
I told you not to get lost in the wild,  
I sent omens and all kinds of signs,  
I taught you melodies, poems, and rhymes—_

* * *

As a child, Julian was constantly getting into trouble. He was privileged, the first son of Pankratz. With his sire, he was destined for a life of comfort. Not that he cared for any of that. No, from Jaskier’s earliest memory he remembered the trees in his family’s gardened estate. He adored the garden. The garden with the vibrant flowers, the too green trees, and his mother’s tender care—even to the weeds. He remembered, too clearly, the rough bark on his soft palms as he climbed higher and higher into the sky, and muddy knees. The heavens were always bluer up in the trees, and the clouds whiter.

Growing up, climbing the trees was his favorite pastime. It was to escape his tutors, yes, but it was also due to the thick forest that surrounded the estate. From the tallest ash, Julian could briefly see into its depths. It was lush and the deepest green he had ever seen but seemed _so sad_. He never saw animals. Nor heard the song of any bird. It was only ever the wind, and it was always gentle and warm.

Julian craved above all to explore it.

It wasn’t to be, however. His mother had told him stories about it, of children venturing in and never coming back. It was to scare him, and it did scare his younger sisters into compliance. Not Julian, though. It only made him want to pursue it more. And pursue it was all he devoted his youth towards. Well, the forest and his lute. The walls of his ‘prison,’ as he liked to call it, could not stop his love.

With his lute in tow, he would climb his ash and serenade his melancholy forest with soft words and gentler notes. Plucking away at the strings, he would smile into the green lush with the hope that it knew his song was for it alone. He would muse away upon his lute until his fingers were sore. Sometimes he would play until the sun was low in the sky and stopped only when he was called to dinner. The call would always come with a soft knock on the torso of his tree, Julian giving his mother a toothy-grin when she peered up at him on his perch. An amused, but pressed, smile constant upon her lips. He knew that she hated him climbing so far up, but was happy that he stayed in the garden.

His father loathed his heir climbing trees _and_ his lute. He would say that Julian was wasting his time _chasing the breeze_ and that his dedication towards his lute was _all for naught._ To his father, he was simply the first-born and his neck was to remain un-snapped from his own foolishness. His mother thought his music sweet, but her bright blue eyes held worry deep within them. She did not like that he sang to the forest and wished he would keep his feet upon the earth, lest he fly away with the breeze.

Julian knew that his mother truly feared the forest that engulfed them all. Her eyes were like the sea, constantly wary of the too green earth. She watched the forest as her son did, though she never said it out-right and her eyes were quick to drift away when her son would catch on. She did not need to admit her fear, it was in her eyes. They were too blue and held all the world in them. From the garden where Julian and his siblings would play, when not in study, their mother would watch them carefully. She was never far from them, though she hardly smothered them with open affection. Her love was as soft as she was, but all warmth and sunshine; endless. In truth, she held all the love that their father did not.

She feared for her son—the boy who loved the forest so much. That, he could tell, but Julian did not understand it. The forest was lovely and so big. He did not understand why she did not want to explore it with him. Or, why she would tell her children that other kids had disappeared in the wood without a trace and nothing more. He had wanted to know why—how? Where did they go? Did they die? Or, had they escaped their exquisite prisons too?

“Why do you not like the forest, mama?” Julian had asked her once, age nine, knees pressed in the mud beside her. His mother sat demurely upon a rich blanket of gold and sky blue—the colors of their house. He remembered, briefly, how her fingers stilled at his question, though careful not to bruise the bud of the flower she was attending.

“It’s not safe,” His mother had said simply, her blue eyes much too bright. She plucked the scissors up off her white saffron gown and quickly snipped a mature bloom, placing it tenderly in her wicker basket. A basket that was always full of flowers: roses, forget-me-nots, orchids, and the handfuls of dandelions that Julian snuck in—his mother's favorite name for him. For the wild boy with mud on his shins and rumpled riches. Her little Jaskier.

“But why?”

“Hush, my little bloom,” His mother had cooed with a whisper, the wind rushing past them in a gentle gush. She then pressed her finger to her lips, blonde locks wild. “The wind carries all questions to undesired ears.”

That only left him with more questions—made them bubble deep within his chest. To the point that he started asking them to the forest itself, his fingers bruised and bleeding from the strings of his lute. The wind did not carry his questions, nor did it reply.

That is, until one day he finally spotted something in his forest. After years of watching and singing, _there it was_. The first reply of life outside the estate in all of his fifteen years: a doe. It was snow white and Julian nearly fell from his tree. Maybe he did. In all honesty, he didn’t remember much after seeing it.

What he did remember, was the feel of wet moss beneath his head. That and the unfamiliar skyline that loomed with great pine that made his mind fuzzy. For it was not the familiar skyline of his beloved garden, but _more_.

Someone was humming a tune too. One that he knew was his own, because it was his favorite—an ode to the wind. Hands carded through his hair kindly. Fingers that he knew didn’t belong to his too soft mother, nor rough-hearted father. It did not matter though. He knew that he was safe with whomever the touch belonged to, for they knew all of his melodies that he sang to the breeze. His questions were heard after all.


End file.
